John once more had the box taken from the church and placed at his feet, before he stood in front of the half-circle of jurors as Gwyn bellowed the inquest summons at the top of his voice, something he always enjoyed doing. ‘All you who have anything to do before the King’s coroner for the county of Devon, touching the finding of this treasure, draw near and give your attendance!’
With Robert Hereward, his bailiff and Michael the priest at one side and Thomas squatting with his pen, ink and parchment on a stool on the other, the coroner called for the finder to step forward. Gwyn helpfully pushed the young Simon, who stood sheepishly before de Wolfe for his brief moment of fame. He repeated what he had said about the discovery and thankfully melted back into the jury line. Henry Stork, the manor-reeve, then confirmed that Simon had reported the matter to him without delay and that he had consulted the bailiff, who stepped forward to say that he had sent to Exeter to notify the coroner, as he had heard was the proper thing to do since last year.
John then got Gwyn to untie the bonds around the box and fold back the cloth so that the contents could be seen. The jury then filed past, gaping at the sight of more money than they would see in a score of lifetimes. Standing back in their ragged line, they listened bemused as de Wolfe concluded the proceedings.
‘I have to pronounce on three matters, when such wealth is discovered. Firstly, is it gold or silver? In this case, both are present and I have no hesitation in declaring that this is treasure.’ He scowled around the throng before continuing. ‘Secondly, where was it found and who was the finder? Obviously, it was this Simon, who unearthed it in a mound in the vill of Cadbury.’
For the finale, he stood with his thumbs hooked into his either side of his wide sword-belt, his tall, spare body slightly stooped. With his long dark grey tunic, his black hair and his predatory nose, he looked like a great crow standing guard over the box of precious metal.
‘Next, was this treasure deliberately hidden or merely lost? There is no doubt that it was secreted by intent — no one can just lose a box of this size and weight. And was it abandoned or was there the intention to recover it at some later date?’ He glared around again, as if challenging anyone to disagree with him. ‘Of course it was not abandoned. No one in their right mind would discard gold and silver! And if it was hidden, then there must have been the desire to reclaim it one day, else there would be no point in hiding it.’
There was no demur from the jury, who were not going to bandy words with this forbidding official from far-away Exeter.
‘Lastly, who did it belong to and who hid it? We will never know, though the fact that none of the coins was minted after the arrival of King William in this land, suggests that the owner was a Saxon.’ John shot a quick glance towards Robert Hereward, but there was no sign that he wished to claim his ancestors as the original owners. ‘As we can never be sure that there are legitimate heirs or successors to the unknown owner, the matter ends there and all that remains is for me to declare that the find is treasure trove and it will be so recorded in my rolls.’ He jabbed a finger towards Thomas, who was busy scratching away on his stool. ‘The amount has been accurately recorded and witnessed by several persons. I therefore seize this treasure in the name of King Richard and will cause it to be held in safe-keeping in Exeter until the royal justices confirm that it should be sent to the King’s treasury in Winchester.’
Gwyn marched forward to close the proceedings by shooing away the jury and picking up the valuable box, which he retied once again.
‘What’s to be done with this, Crowner?’ he boomed.
‘I want you to take it straight away back to Rougemont and give it into Ralph Morin’s hands, to be locked up somewhere safe. I’m staying here for a few hours, as Robert Hereward has kindly invited me to eat with him at the manor house. I’ll ride back this evening with Thomas.’
It was a decision that was to cause de Wolfe considerable aggravation some time later.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Although Walter Winstone lived a frugal existence in the dismal room above his shop, he was a moderately rich man, mainly because he added considerably to his legitimate business as an apothecary by his more dubious activities in procuring miscarriages and the occasional killing. The last was usually of animals, when some disgruntled person wished to get even with an enemy by poisoning his horse, cow or pigs — but sometimes, as with the attempt on Henry de Pridias, he undertook the occasional murder. As he begrudged every penny he was forced to spend, his wealth had steadily accumulated and his locked chest upstairs now contained quite a few pounds, quite apart from the box buried in his backyard, which held another large hoard of silver pennies. Thus, although he was the meanest man in Devon, he felt able to cast a little bread upon the waters by bribing agents to discredit his rivals, the cunning women whom he obsessively blamed for undercutting his business.
So far he had scored a spectacular success with Alice Ailward, the widow of Rock Lane, who was now securely locked up in the proctors’ cells near the cathedral. This emboldened him to repeat the escapade, after doing some intelligence work to discover the names of a few more alleged witches in the city.
On the evening of the day when John de Wolfe rode out to Cadbury to inspect treasure trove, a porter called at the cottage of Theophania Lawrence, in one of the mean lanes of Bretayne. This was the south-western corner of the city, called after the remnants of the original Britons of the Dumnonia tribe, who gave their name to Devon. These Celtic people were pushed into this ghetto when the Saxons arrived hundreds of years earlier to settle within the old Roman walls. It remained Exeter’s poorest area, a warren of narrow lanes, shacks and hovels, populated by the lowest class of manual workers.
Theophania’s hut was marginally better than those of her neighbours, but was still a dismal one-room dwelling, with wattle and daub walls and a tattered roof of straw thatch. Her visitor aimed a kick at a large rat that was nibbling at some offal in the gutter that oozed past the rickety door and shouted her name through the cracks in the warped boards. He was Edward Bigge, from St Sidwells, the village where Gwyn of Polruan lived, just outside the East Gate. A wide, squat man of thirty, he had cropped ginger hair and a square, pugnacious face that was deeply pitted by old acne scars. He had almost no neck and his arms seemed too long for his short body, but he was immensely strong, almost muscle-bound, from his occupation of carrying goods on and off the ships at the quay-side.
He shouted again and was answered by a yell from inside to wait a moment, as the woman of the house was occupied. Theophania was dealing with another client, a sailor who was about to take ship to Flanders, carrying tin and silver bound from Dartmoor to Cologne. Such cargoes were often preyed upon by pirates, who came from as far afield as the Barbary Coast or even Turkey, and he wanted a charm to keep him safe. Such requests for protection on journeys were common and the old woman had a ready supply of amulets in her cupboard on the wall.
‘Take this and hang it around your neck — then we will say a prayer together to St Christopher,’ she croaked, handing him a crude agnus dei.
This was a small roundel of wax with a cross crudely stamped into one side and a leather lace attached to go over his head. The wax had come from stumps of altar candle that she had scavenged from the waste middens outside various Exeter churches, which she melted down and moulded to make her talismans.